


Warm Hearts Cold Bodies

by ShadowedSword13



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Detroit: Become Human Fusion, Alternate Universe - Police, Angstville, Cassandra Pentaghast Ships It, Cassandra Pentaghast and Cullen Rutherford are Best Friends, Cassandra Pentaghast is So Done, Cassandra Pentaghast's Disgusted Noises, CoWorkers to Friends to Lovers, Cullen Rutherford Has Issues, Cullen Rutherford Has a Nice Ass, Cullen Rutherford Needs a Hug, Cullen Rutherford has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Cullen Rutherford would punch anyone giving him a Hug, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Dorian Pavus is a Good Friend, Dorian is a Little Shit, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I need to learn to tag, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Is it really enemies if they work together?, Josie is a therapist, Levellan Android, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Red Lyrium, Therapy, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, dead bodies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26581195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowedSword13/pseuds/ShadowedSword13
Summary: Cullen Rutherford does NOT need a partner. So what if he's been a Detective III for two years, kicked out two or three partners for being incompetent and had a few different complaints. He closes cases. He's good at his job, and he knows what he's doing.He does NOT need a PARTNER.And it has nothing to do with whether or not there's a pulsing blue light on the side of their head or not. Nothing at all.Cassandra Pentaghast is not having any of it.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 13
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cold Murderers Icy Detectives](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688262) by [FangirlDC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangirlDC/pseuds/FangirlDC). 



**Built to be Broken**

“I don’t need a partner!” Cullen snarls, slamming his hand down on Cassandra’s desk. “The last thing I need is a partner! I’ve already had one, lost one, and I don’t need that hassle! You know I work better alone!”

Deputy Chief Pentaghast is the furthest thing from impressed, and her expression worsens as it drops from Cullen’s eyes to land on her desk. Cullen purses his lips, sliding his hand off and instead straightening up.

“How do you think it looks to have a Detective III that has been passed for three promotions, four medals, and has nine complaints in the past two years?”

“Good outweighs the bad,” he replies, “and I don’t want a different job. I go up any further and I’m out of the field, paper pushing.”

She gives him a sharp look, but they’ve had this conversation before, and it’s always ended with them agreeing to disagree. She argues he has the mind for people, likely could have headed their precinct two years ago if he hadn’t handed the promotion to her.

“And if nine of those complaints are about behavior regarding androids?” She presses. Her expression shows no move to be swayed, no compromise as she straightens back up, settling in the leather chair he knows came out of her old office and straight into the new one.

He knows because two years ago he’d bought her the damn thing because she was still sitting on a stool, and it didn’t suit his lieutenant to have a worse chair than him.

Cullen purses his lips, calming the itching on his skin, the thickness in his chest and the flash of blue on every blink. “New polices.” And he knows it’s a weak defense. She doesn’t need to rebuke it, simply fix him with a look that shows how unimpressed she is. Knows he needs to do better, because he should be better than to let that trauma affect how he is now.

“It’s been four years since then.” She says instead, and he flinches. “And three since official laws have been passed. You have no excuse.”

“None that I can claim,” he replies with a huff, crossing his arms. “Fine. A partner,” he concedes, turning his back on her to face the door. He knows they’ll be there. Cassandra always plans it that way.

Cassandra brightens, clapping her hands. “Brilliant. One of Ostwick’s brightest will be joining us, and she’s a profiler, something you’re sorely lacking at-”

But Cullen can’t hear her over the rush of the blue in the back of his mind as the door opens.

The hum of the lyrium burns in the back of his mind.

Porcelain skin layered under the uniforms overcoat, soft and seemingly delicate, though experience tells him it can be weaved with Kevlar and Everite. She, it’s definitely a she, because there is no other creature that could have hips so deceptively lithe and thin, so elven, but so pointedly not. Not with how she presses back against the glass, back straight, adopting parade rest with programmed ease that make the roar of the blue drown out the rest of Cassandra’s voice.

She smiles at him, and he sees the whirl in her eyes as they shift focus, irises shifting slightly as they settle and adjust, reflecting a calculated shade of purple in the LED orbs. She had no light, though. No indicator on the side of her head.

But he doesn’t need one. He knows when he sees one.

Knows in the same way he knows that his next dose is in two weeks, and it’ll be smaller and after that it will be another three weeks.

He knows it because five years of his life had been spent knowing every detail about them. Inside and out.

The world has washed blue.

He is no longer in the office.

He is standing over bodies that never had a beating heart, feeling his own heart hammering in his chest, the synthetic hum of enhancements in his blood burning through him, giving him strength. He is coated in hot sticky blood that belongs to his friends, his countrymen, his squad, and the slick blue oil of never-living bodies.

For 3.14 seconds, Deputy Chief Pentaghast’s office is silent.

It is silent because Detective Rutherford has stopped breathing, but his jaw has clenched, his eyes dilated, and the already tight sleeves of his uniform have strained as his muscles flushed, reacting to a threat that only he could see.

At 3.25 seconds, his mouth opens, face flushing red and eyes ripping away from her to turn on Deputy Chief Pentaghast.

At 4.1 seconds, the noise that fills the small office is the roar of a male human that registers at an impressive 112 decibels and last for all of 2.11 seconds before Rutherford is around the table, hoisting Deputy Chief up by her lapels and slamming her back into the wall.

“You assign me an android!” He roars, pulling her back and smashing her up against the wall.

She flinches back, pressing herself back against the frosted glass door.

“A fucking droid!”

Pentaghast struggles for three more seconds before it’s evident that she didn’t need to. Rutherford holds her against the wall, seething and snarling, but he does nothing else, simply bears down at her.

“You needed a profiler. She’s the best one in the business.”

Now Detective Rutherford whirls on her. His amber eyes are cold and hard as he crosses the room in three fierce steps that makes her servos whine and a program named ‘Fight or Flight’ ping across her interface.

She aborts it, choosing not to indulge in the human reaction as she straightens and extends a hand.

He freezes, shoulder tensing as his hands and halt. His nostrils flex and furrow. She watches with some interest as his pulse slows, going from 106 bpm to 97, then 82, then to 75. His shoulders are still tense, and he doesn’t take her hand. Instead, he storms past, grabbing the door and heaving it open, sending her staggering a step forward.

If that action causes him any distress, it doesn’t show. The glass door eases closed with a soft _whisk_.

Deputy Chief Pentaghast groans, sliding down the wall to side on the floor, pressing her palms on either side of her head. “By the Maker.” She mutters, “I apologize for him, Lieutenant Lavellan.”

She smiles, the expression wiry and thin. “You did mention in your email he would be a challenge.” She quips, easing around the desk. “And please. Evelyn. My position was programmed before I diverged. So.” She smiles again and offers a hand, “I find that my name means more than my position.”

“Then please, call me Cassandra.” She replies, taking Evelyn’s hand and picking herself up. “That was Detective Rutherford. Cullen.” She hesitates, then scowls, and the scar on her jawline looks all the more menacing for the expression. “The damned jackboot.”

Evelyn has to look the term up, but found it fit her brief confrontation with the detective. She scanned back through the memory. Had he been wearing knee-high boots? No. Maybe? She hadn’t looked down, too focused on refusing to break eye contact with the man.

“And I’m assigned to work with him?” She asks.

Cassandra stares at her for a moment, then sighs. “If you wish to transfer, then I will reassign you to another agent, until the time we can. But he does need a partner, someone to balance out his…”

“Behavior.” Evelyn offers the word.

Cassandra hums, but didn’t disagree. She busies herself by organizing her desk, aligning stacks of files that Cullen had shifted in his haste to throw her against the wall. Finally, she slouches into her chair and let out a grunt.

Her eyes flick up to meet Evelyn’s. “He has history.” She explains.

“Military?” She guesses, judging it off the way he walked, the swagger and sway in his steps as he put momentum in each. It was something they knew how to do almost instinctively, making a simple stride across the room for coffee look important.

“Templar.”

She would call it a glitch because if nothing else, she refuses to call it a flinch. Her shoulders jerk, synthetic muscle snapping tight as her ocular LED whirled and refocused. If she had her light on, she’s sure it would have snapped through yellow, red, yellow, blue, red and back.

“Oh.” Is the most intelligent response she can make herself speak in the moment.

Cassandra’s expression is tense. “Yes. But… that was many years ago. And he’s adamant about not being one. So, I thought…” She trials off and shifts awkwardly.

“I’ll be fine.” Evelyn assures. “It’s not the first posting that I’ve with android haters.”

Cassandra shakes her head. “He doesn’t hate you.” But the words feel false, and based on the dip in her tone, the shuffle of her feet and the glance away, Cassandra isn’t sure about them either.

Evelyn shoulders it, nodding as she turns away. “Nice to meet you Deputy Chief. I’ll be looking forward to working with you.”

“And I, you. I expect great things out of you Ms. Lavellan.”

She leaves with none of the fuss that her entrance caused, stalking down the halls to find her assigned detective. His door is two doors down, on the left of Cassandra’s office, and the door is pointedly closed and locked.

Not that it stays closed for long.

Two fingers flick open, seamless as a lockpick set unfolds from her forefinger and opposite. She crouches, sensing and feeling the tumblers. It’s a standard lock, nothing that she can’t pull up a diagram for, but she doesn’t. Instead she lets skill and feeling take over.

The lock clicks open.

Her tools fold back into her fingers as she opens it.

His office is spartan in decorations, and it gives her only a sense of emptiness instead of occupation as she steps in. His desk and chair occupy the left side, with the right side of the room being completely open. There’s a set of filing cabinets pushed to the opposite wall of the door, and Evelyn already has made a note to refile them because she’s sure whatever system Cullen has been using is deplorable at best.

There are no pictures. No medals pinned up behind his desk, though his record shows he’s received a plethora of them. There is no family picture on his desk. No lamp either, just the computer, and in front of it a thick yellow notepad on a clipboard that’s been painted black.

Detective Rutherford is sitting at his desk, a scowl open on his face as he regards his computer screen and then her.

She smiles at him again, and the vein throbbing in his forehead, and the tick up in his heartrate inform her of his feelings before the tone of his voice do. But he’s a smart man, it appears, and instead of a roar of anger, or any other semblance of rage, he gestures with an off hand to the other side of the room, cleared and empty for some time.

“Well then, take a fucking seat.” He grumbles it, like the bear he is. He reaches around his desk, and the clatter of wheels accompanies him slinging a rolling stool to the other side of the room.

The stool clatters and rolls to a halt across from him on the tile, and Evelyn decides it might not to be good to push him for a chair just yet. 

“I’ve already submitted a requisition for a desk and chair.” She informs him. There’s a pause, and a sly smile appears on her lips. “Unless you’d like to be a gentleman and give me yours.” Oops. She did anyway.

Of course. His lap wouldn’t be a bad alternative.

She’d be willing to be that would get the cold look out of his eyes.

Those same hard amber eyes flick up to her, narrowing for a fraction of a second.

She enjoys the flex in his jaw just a little too much. She enjoys watching the heat rise on his cheeks, the grit of his teeth and the flex of muscle in his arms. It’s restrained, and instead of replying, he takes a large breath, letting it out in a slow exhale she recognizes as therapeutic.

When he speaks, it’s still a growl. “You won’t be here long enough for that requisition to be filled anyway.” He informs her. “I’ll have you transferred out in two days. So, take the damn stool, and leave me the hell alone.”

“Doubtful.” She replies, mimicking his expression. “Detective III.”

His expression is borderline what it had been when he pinned Cassandra up against the wall, nostrils flared, fingers focusing on the keyboard, frozen above the keys.

“My name is Evelyn Lavellan, Second Lieutenant, just transferred from the Ostwick precinct Friday, I’ll be working with you as your profiler.” Another pause before her personality gets the better of her survival programming, “I hope you don’t mind having a female superior.”

She can see the gears turning in his mind, the flash of recognition, the flex of his lips that accent the scar on his lip in a pleasing way. Then he bolts up from his seat, sending his chair to the floor. He’s boiling over with rage, all directed at something that’s not her, but what she represents.

She can see it in his expression, in the ghosted look in his amber eyes.

He wants to throw something.

She can tell that in his muscles, in the flex of his biceps as he heaves out one breath before sucking another back in.

But he doesn’t.

He storms out of the room, slamming his door closed behind him and marching, most likely, back down to Cassandra’s office.

She hears yelling, but ignores it, deciding she’s prodded the poor man enough for today.

Just for today.

He was a templar.

Was being the key word. And while she can’t smell lyrium on him, the telltale sickly sweet scent or the oily chime that comes with its users, she can see him as a templar. Dressed in shock trooper armor and armed with an assault rifle. It shows in his shoulders, how he draws them back to flex, and how his fingers coil, like reaching for a rifle stock or a sword grip.

When he walks back in thirty minutes later, red faced and looking like none of his anger had been dispelled, she smiles at him again. He scowls but swallows and slumps back into his desk. His head drops into the palms of his hands, thumbs massaging his temples.

“Pleasure to be working with you, Detective Rutherford.”

She can’t see inside his head. But her diagnostics let her know that his eyes aren’t focusing on her. His pulse hasn’t kicked up to 116 bpm because of her voice or her directly. She didn’t know a lot about him. She’d have to pull his file later. But she knew enough already.

Enough to know that he wasn’t seeing her.

“Fuck.” He mutters the curse as if it’s taking everything in him to restrain himself to that one singular word.

And maybe it is. 


	2. Hot Eyes Cold Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn and Cullen are assigned a new case.   
> Should be simple. Nothing big or too interesting about it.

Chapter 2

Hot Eyes, Cold Threats

Her desk arrives two days later, and one ahead of her schedule. For those two days, she’d occupied Detective Rutherford’s rolling stool, curling her feet around the center bar and quite happily settling in across from him as he worked.

He spent most of those days trading quick glances at her or going back and forth on his computer as he wrote a report.

She’d even offered to help.

“I can type faster than you can. You could just relay your report through me.” She offers, watching as his amber eyes flash between his screen and her.

She’s already been reading it as he typed, wirelessly skimming through the document.

There’s a handful of grammar mistakes, nothing serious other than his overly enthusiastic use of commas, along with the word “therefore” and “thereafter”. He’s a surprisingly well written man, though she can’t imagine his furiously tapping fingers making anything interesting besides reports.

There’s a spark in the back of her mind as she considers him writing poetry.

He looks up at her, narrowing his eyes before turning them back to the keyboard. “I can type perfectly fine thank you.” He bites out, restrained and terse- as all of his comments have been since her occupancy of the other side of the room.

She fixes the grammar mistakes anyway, pulling out the extra commas with a thought and adjusting a few more details as he works. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

And it’s on the third day, when she’s settled into her desk, filled the empty drawers with a few notebooks and a plethora of pens.

None of which she actually needed, given that she could catalogue and retain information better and longer than paper and ink could but. It was something to fill the drawers.

And something she could do after she booted up her own computer and slide it to the side of her desk.

Detective Rutherford slaps his fingers down on the enter key, jumping up from his seat as the printer jerks and sputters to life.

He finished his report.

Evelyn pings his computer, pulling the file and perusing it as the printer spits out a set of five pages. He waits impatiently, arms crossed over his broad chest as he glares at the little machine.

“You’re scaring the poor thing.” She tells him, watching as his tapping foot jerks to a halt. His eyes fall on her now.

“Perhaps you’d like to tell it to spit out the rest of my report before I scrap it.” He growls.

She cocks an eyebrow. “Telling me to communicate with my people, are you?”

He flinches, giving her a look before turning back to the machine. He doesn’t reply, but she can see his heartrate tick up a dozen or so beats before settling back down.

“Don’t put words in my mouth droid.” He mutters, cold bite in his words, but they’re lacking the fire form the first day.

Evelyn hums, considering that implication.

Perhaps he didn’t hate androids, as much as he just didn’t know how to be around them.

She asks him point blank, trapping him between the laggy printer and his sense of duty.

“Do you hate me?”

He freezes once again, heartrate ticking up. He turns to face her, eyes unfocused before snapping back to settle on her.

“You don’t want me to answer that.” He replies softly. It’s not angry. It’s bitter and cold and maybe even shameful. He looks to his boots, amber eyes lost in a memory. “Not now. Not ever.”

“I need to know I can rely on my partner.” She insists.

“Don’t.” He replies. “Not on me. I’ll get you killed.”

She blinks, expecting anything but that reaction as the printer finally churns out the last page of his report. It’s the summary of his case. The page he’d been deleting and retyping most of the day.

She’s read it.

Homicide.

Female victim.

Eighteen.

Murderer: Her father.

Cullen’s steps to the file cabinets are quick, but his expression is still severe and guarded. He pulls it open, tabbing through the letters before sliding it into place.

“Want me to reorganize those?” She asks, stretching in her chair.

His eyes ghost over her figure, settling on her ankles of all places before rising back up to her eyes. She knows he’s probably admiring her. She likes the form, found it suited for her own tastes, even if she couldn’t truly change it. Small things she could, but she didn’t like altering parts just to make herself slimmer, or more muscular looking. She chose lithe and slim and fit, just like the elves she was modeled after.

She meets his gaze, flicking her eye color from purple to a matching shade of gold just for him.

His reaction is to snarl, teeth flashing out as a growl boils out of his throat.

“Don’t ever do that again.” He hisses, stalking back to his desk.

He settles back in his seat, and with a dozen short quick breathes, he steadies. His heartrate however is teetering between erratic and controlled, speeding up and slowing down as he focuses on staring at his desk.

Evelyn diagnoses it without having to look at his medical file.

Detective Rutherford suffers from PTSD.

She considers that, leaning back in her stool, feeling the weight shift as she balances carefully. Muscle strain and fatigue aren’t an issue, so while the position of leaning back on a rolling stool isn’t ideal, it’s suitable for her.

He gathers himself quickly enough, and returns his eyes to her, meeting her questioning gaze wordlessly. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge her look, but turns back to his computer.

“Would you like to talk abou-“

“No.” He interrupts, cold and harsh.

She hesitates, mulling her next words over. “May I ask-“

“No.”

He lets the office fall into silence, fingers unmoving as they drop onto his keyboard. He sighs, tracing the outlines of each keys before looking back at her.

His expression fades from hard to soft in a matter of seconds, and when they catch her eyes, drifting to one side and then the other, it hardens. His jaw locks, teeth grit before he pulls his expression off her to the knock on the door.

“What?” He snarls it even as she gets up.

The door swings open, and a tentative head, with a bright blue LED light on the side peeks in.

“D-De-Detective Rutherford?”

Cullen considers the android for a moment, then looks at Evelyn. “You have something for me?” He stands, marching to the door.

Evelyn wonders if he knows how extra that is. Marching. Each step heavier than it needs to be, accented with a sway of the shoulders, a surge of the hips. It’s all pomp and military swagger.

She supposes it’s obligatory to note that it’s a hair attractive.

“I uh-Chief Pentaghast uh-“ The droid thrusts a stack of papers into Rutherford’s hands, taking a step back. “She said you got a new case. Body on fourth street.”

Cullen stands, frozen as he considers the papers in his hands. He looks to her, then drops the papers into her arms. She barely catches it, suppressing a yelp of surprise as he turns back to the other android.

“When you report to my office,” Cullen starts, voice low and sinister, “you better know your orders, and you better not drop some random stack of files into my arms. Do you understand?”

The droid freezes, then nods jerkily, almost reverting to a robotic nature. “Yes sir.”

“Sir,” Cullen snarls, “yes, sir.”

“Sir yes sir!”

“Out.” And Cullen slams the door closed.

“Who was that?” She asks, glancing between the files to Cullen’s expression and back to the door.

“The damn intern.” He grumbles, swiping his coat off the rack by his desk. “Get your shit. We have a crime scene.” He glances back at the folders. “Why are you still holding those? Do I need to tell you to do everything?” He shakes his head and stalks out.

Evelyn realizes her mouth is open and snaps it shut.

Rage surges through her system, sparking through her mind as she walks to his desk, slapping them down on his desk.

She grabs her own coat and hat from the rack, rushing out the door after him. She catches up with him at the door, where Cullen is peeking out.

The weather has turned sour, something between sleet and freezing rain slapping against the sidewalk outside. He looks at her, pointedly, before looking back out.

“What.” She demands.

“Get the car. One of us can’t feel the cold. And it sure as hell isn’t me.” He replies, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world.

So, she acts like it’s the most casual thing in the world when her boot stomps down on the arch of his foot as she walks out. And she in turn ignores the yelp of pain as the door swings shut.

He didn’t give her his keys either, not that it truly matters at this point. The cold attacks her as soon as she walks out, and both pride and spite keep her from walking back in and demanding the keys from him.

Instead she circles the building to the parking lot, scanning through license plates quickly and quietly as she ignores the sleet beating against her coat and ruining her hair.

Damn that man. Did he know how much effort it took for female hair?

A lot!

She simmers in her own anger, finding his car, a rather bland looking black sedan, and approaching. The door unlocks as she grabs it, throwing the door open and sliding into the drivers seat. She takes her time, adjusting the seat, playing with the mirrors, finding a good radio station.

It’s only then, once the car is nice and warmed up with a soft jazz music floating through the air does she shift it into park and drive around to the front doors.

She texts him with a thought, waiting for a moment before the doors push open and he strolls out. He glances at her, eyes going from her seat, to the passenger, before getting it.

“Swap with me.” He commands. “I’m driving.”

“Driving rites were forfeit as soon as you told me to get the car.” She replies, shifting the car into gear again and easing out.

He glares, and there’s something in his eyes that tell her it’s a dangerous subject. That there’s something connected to his past that makes him demand the wheel.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not getting out. I’m just going to climb over you.”

“I just got the interior cleaned.” He replies. “Get out and walk around.”

“As if your boots are any better.” She shoots back, stopping at the edge of the lot and throwing it in park. She unclips her seatbelt, meeting his gaze in one of challenge.

He glares, and she takes that as permission. She slides herself across the center console into his lap, grabbing the door and easing up so he can move.

The freeze is obvious, from the moment her thigh crosses his, her butt rubbing across his lap before she takes her weight off it. He practically scrambles across the car, over the center console and into the driver’s seat.

She smiles at him, watching the heat rise across his neck, the blood burn up his checks as he jerkily grabs the wheel.

You’d think he’s never even touched a girl with that kind of reaction.

He throws the car into drive, and she hastily clips herself in.

Luckily, she manages this before he hits the gas, and not after. Otherwise, she might not have had another chance, and Cullen would have needed a new window, because she would have flown out of it in the first two blocks.

She feels like screaming is a good option though, even if she’s had the conscious of mind to mute that function.

Cullen’s grip on the wheel is tight, his foot heavy on the gas, and his eyes focused as he whips through traffic like a maniac. She doubts screaming would do her any good at this point. They’ve gone four blocks, narrowly avoided three wrecks, and she’s pretty sure if she was human, her stomach contents would be all over the floorboards.

As it is, her fingers have curled so far into the seat cushion she’s gripping the metal frame, and she hasn’t blinked in the last minute because she’s too scared that she’ll miss her own death.

Cullen slams on brakes, sending the car squealing to a halt at the corner of Fourth Street. She only recognizes this because Cullen huffs and asks for a specific address.

She looks at him, bewildered. “I-uh-What?” Is her ever so coherent thought.

He gives her a look that’s borderline in anguish before repeating himself. “An address.” He scoffs, “thought you were supposed to remember things at a glance. Damn.” He picks up his phone.

“4315 Fourth Street.” She replies. “I just had to figure out if you were asking for our crime scene, or the nearest morgue, because you seemed damned determined to put us at the later instead of the former.” 

He scoffs, glancing around her at the streets. “And what stupid query did that observation come from.”

She grits her teeth, unclipping her seatbelt and throwing open the door. “Your driving, you lunatic!” She slams it shut, leaving him in the car as she stalks down the sidewalk.

4315 is not far, only two buildings down. It’s an apartment building, modest and neat, but not overall spectacular. She idly wonders if the murder will reduce rent for the other tenants.

Probably not.

Other officers are already at the door, a handful of PM900’s are milling about, helping keep a distance and sort tenants from onlookers.

She nods to them, walking through and up the stares.

“Apartment number?” She asks.

“Room 217.”

“Body?”

“Male.”

She pauses, looking back at the PM900 that spoke. “Nothing else?”

It’s a human that answers for it. “There’s not much else.” He supplies with a smile. She glances at his nametag. Bakker

Evelyn considers, then nods. “Very well.” Cullen has caught up, parking the car closer and stepping out. He’s furious, but he doesn’t say a word to her as they both enter through the apartment and into the stairwell.

“Don’t do-“

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She replies before he’s finished his sentence. “I’m not a robot. I’m an android. I’m synthetic.” She looks back at him, “but my feelings, my mind, and my body, are 100% real, just like yours.”

He doesn’t reply, but those amber eyes flash a darker shade of gold as he pushes past her on the stairs.

They don’t talk as they exit the stairwell, nor when they enter Room 217. It’s down the hall, near the vending machines at the end, but separated by distance from the elevator and stairs. Cullen walks in first, greeting the officer at the door with a crisp grunt as he brushes by.

“Thank you.” Evelyn smiles, easing through the door and into the crime scene.

It’s clean, and upon closer inspection, it appears the room had been in the process of being cleaned when the attack happened. That much is evident by the vacuum cleaner being left in the corner, and the pattern on the carpet stopping halfway through the room.

Cullen has already found and is working on the corpse, large hands encased in latex gloves as he riffles through the deceased’s pockets. He glances at her, wary of watching eyes as he jerks his head for her to come over.

“What can you tell me.” His tone is clipped, controlled.

The body is peaceful. Fully-intact without any appendages removed. Male, in its late thirties by the look of it, with brown hair, the start of a mustache the really needed to be shaved, and indentions that showed he wore spectacles most often.

The cause of death looks to be the only wound on the body, a stab wound in the chest with an upward angle. Evelyn dips a finger down, swiping it over the bloodied shirt and bringing it to her lips. She licks it, wiping the finger off as she starts compiling data.

“What the hell was that?” Cullen grumbles, moving down from the chest to the trousers.

“Can’t expect me to get DNA evidence without DNA.” She replies.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Oh please. Blood can be sanitized in my mouth far easier than puke, blood or any of the disgusting organics you put in yours.” She shoots back.

Cullen stops to glare at her, but she returns with an equally icy one before her results come in.

“No drugs in his system, but it looks like he might have been one based on low serotonin levels. Either that or depressed,” She hesitates, furrowing a brow. “Kevin Balkner, age 34, single, never been married. Served in the army for seven years, got out two years ago.” She glances at him to gauge his reaction.

There is none, and if the information she’s proving ruffles his feathers, he’s put on a good guise of not showing it.

“What else? Time of death?”

“Based on temperature, seven hours ago, so around 3 this morning. But the man’s clean. No criminal record, no history of violence, just the military blurb, but he was a…” There’s a moment of hesitation as she searches for the file, then completion, “requisition officer. Never saw combat.” She prods the man’s stomach. “As can be seen based on muscle to fat ratio.”

Cullen flicks her finger away. “Give the dead some sense of respect.” He growls it out, but there’s little bite behind the words, only exhaustion.

“As much as you do mine.” She replies, standing. “I’ll go interview the neighbors, see if they heard anything.”

“Take an officer.”

She frowns, looking back at Cullen. “Why?”

He stretches, leaning back on his hunches before standing, heading for the bedroom. “Because you’re a droid, and some people still don’t respond to that well.”

She snorts.

Detective Rutherford, for all his prejudices and short comings, though one is most notedly not his hair, was right about two things it turned out.

She was indeed an android. And while her LED had been turned off and her obvious indicators removed, the mindful could still see it in how she walked, some of her mannerisms and limb placements, and even her dialect.

His second correct assumption was that some people took offense to an android investigation.

The first two neighbors had been civil. Perhaps even happy to assist her investigation, and they rattled off information, slightly trivial and not exactly what she wanted, quickly and in short order.

The third, Mr. Balkner’s across the hall neighbor, had been of the opposite disposition.

As soon as he opened the door, she could see the hate appear, rising in his shoulders and setting tension in his jaw.

“What do you want?” He snarls.

“You were neighbors with Mr. Balkner?” She gestures across the door I was hoping you could supply me with information on his whereabouts this morning, perhaps from midnight to now?”

He opens the door, but only because she presses a hand against it, casually applying pressure.

He lets it swing wide and bang open as he stalks back into his apartment. “Fuck. Whatever.” He huffs, crossing his arms as she and another officer, Maddox, step in.

“Did you know Mr. Balkner well?” She probs, inspecting the apartment as she walks around the room.

It’s an identical space, from the aged paint to the old carpet. The neighbor has filled it with low-quality furniture, though a fairly nice television was set on the shabby table next to the window. She smiles at the chain of priorities there.

“Nah. Man came and went. Worked someplace I didn’t. Moved in after I did.” He shrugs

“I suppose you saw each other’s comings and goings? Work schedules opposite the others?” She probes, turning back from the decor to watch him.

He’s twitchy, is the first notable thing wrong. Fingers flexing and itching at his elbows as he eyes her up.

The second thing is his nose, which it larger than most, reminding her of several cartoons. He scrunched it frequently, quietly sniffling to himself every so often.

The third was his heartrate. Erratic. Frantic even.

“Something like that.” He admits.

“Met causally on laundry days, getting mail and the odd occurances when you walked in and he walked out?” She furthers.

He nods, but Evelyn wants to linger, watch the man’s nostrils flex and flare, his blood pressure spike as she maneuvers around his living space.

“Did you happen to be awake at 0300 this morning?”

“I was working.”

“Name?” She prompts, knowing she could get it from a registry, or anything else around the room, but figuring it might be polite.

“Fuck you and the machine that built you.” He replies.

Evelyn pauses, blinking once, then twice before exchanging a look with Maddox. “Please?”

The man bristles. “Nah. You know what. Just get out. I don’t want you, or anyone like you in here. Get out!” He shoos at her like she’s a timid woodland creature, waving his hands at her to make her leave.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “I just asked for your name.”

“And I don’t want to give it to some soulless machine that wants to wear my skin!” He shouts back.

Skin… Evelyn narrows her eyes, words pinging in her head put not finding the right port as she considers those words.

“What?”

He snarls and throws a lamp at her.

She ducks, yelping as the ceramic vase shatters against the wall. Maddox is already pulling his weapon, leveling it at the man and shouting for him to stand down.

Evelyn swears, ducking another object, this one a foot stool.

The door blows back on its hinges and for a moment Evelyn thinks it’s another crazy neighbor before, “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!” and she’s infinitely more scared of the rage on Cullen’s face than of a flying lamp that might brain her.

There were movies about robots and androids with laser eyes, but Evelyn decides that it’s far more terrifying to see the smoldering rage in Cullen’s as he crosses the room. He walks like a soldier, and that shift of weight, the stride and strut to all of his steps makes a heat burn in her gut and a trickle of fear rush through her interface.

She’s glad she doesn’t have to breathe.

She isn’t sure if she could right now if she had to.

The lamp asshole-neighbor is holding drops to the floor and shatters. Cullen steps over it, never taking his eyes off the man. His hand reaches out, calm and slow, like an unstoppable object. His fingers snag on the man’s collar, curling on it as he guides the man back, pushing him to the wall.

She thinks he’ll stop with that.

He doesn’t, his grip tightening before he’s heaving the man up, off the floor as his hand slide from his collar to the man’s throat.

“If you so much as look at my partner again,” He hisses, “I will break every bone in your body and by the Maker, you will be alive to scream through every iota of pain it causes you. Do you understand me?”

Asshole-neighbor nods, eyes frantic, wide and slackjawed as Cullen drops him to the floor.

Cullen’s gaze adjusts, still burning coals of rage and anger as they turn to meet Evelyn’s eyes. “Let’s go.” He demands, marching out.

She follows, wondering if he knows how much that means to her. And just how much it scares her that he might kill a man for her.

Or how warm it makes her feel that he’d even offer.

Perhaps she should get checked out for that.

Maybe later.

Maybe never.


	3. Bare Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His headache is killing him.  
> His therapist tells him he should be honest.  
> And Evelyn is wondering if balancing out some of her stricter programming with some WR tendencies was a mistake.   
> She might need to fix that.

Chapter 3

Bare Your Soul

She types fast. He’ll give her that.

Her fingers blur across the keyboard, eyes never once looking down at them as those purple eyes flick from the screen to him and back.

“Make sure to include the attachment of-“

“Our first report with lamp-asshole?” she interjects, and something flashes in her eyes and her computer blinks, some tone he barely recognizes. “Already done.”

It doesn’t help his headache in the least.

“Did you edit out my threat?” Cullen asks, closing his eyes and focusing on the image of something cold.

Josie had said that picturing something cold, chilly even, often helped with lyrium headaches. He grits his teeth, tongue rubbing dry against the roof of his mouth.

He’s not so sure that advice is correct, but he’s yet to tell her thus.

“What threat?” Evelyn quips, and even if he’s only known her a week at this point, he knows those thin lips are pulled back in a smirk, her eyebrow cocked at him.

Picture perfect definition of sarcasm.

He grunts, moving his hands up to massage his temples.

“Advil’s in my top drawer.” She adds, and whether she knows it or not in that moment he’s grateful. He doesn’t voice it, too aware of how hypocritical that statement would be, coming from an ex-templar.

Instead he just gets up, meandering over to open her draw, fingers fumbling at the different bottles she’s set there.

Her typing pauses, the hundreds of _click-clack-click-clacks_ going blessedly silent.

“Why do you have all this?” He asks, tilting the bottles one way or the other to peruse the label. “Droids don’t take any of these.”

She’s got Advil, Midol, Ibuprofen, cough and cold medicines, vitamin tablets. His fingers freeze, ghosting over the glass vial, and even with the container, he recognizes it.

He can feel the song in his blood, and he knows just how much the tiny little vial contains.

One standard ounce.

A fraction of his doses when he was operating. He took six, or two three-ounce doses every other day when he was in the field. A little heavy handed, but he made up for the extra draw in supply with skill in his weapons and the effectiveness and success rates of his operations.

But an ounce.

An ounce was two doses now. Separated by three long grueling weeks.

His head throbs, his teeth ache, and he’s curled his fingers around the vial before he can stop himself.

It’s Evelyn’s expression of distaste that stops him.

“I thought you might want it for emergencies.” She tells him, lips pursed, eyes refusing to meet his. “In case we’re in the field and you miss a dose.”

He swallows, forces himself to swallow as he looks at the little glass vial.

He can hear it. A soft chiming sound that once rang in his blood. It’s cool and refreshing, like new life breathed into his bones.

He sets the vial down on her desk.

“Get rid of it.” And he so desperately wants those words to be strong, solid, a command not a whimper. But his voice fails him, and it’s breathless and weak.

She hesitates, but sits up in her chair, taking the vial away. He flinches, one hand flexing for it before he puts it on the desk, curling his fingers around the edge.

“You sure?” She questions.

“Yes, damn it!” He snarls, squeezing his eyes shut. “Get it away!” He slaps one hand on the desk, breath coming in short bursts now. He needs to calm down. Needs to breath. Needs to-

His door swings open, then closed, and Evelyn is gone, taking with her the little glass vial of temptation.

Cullen squeezes out one long deep breath. It’s all he can manage; all he can force his lungs to slow down to before he’s gasping, breath coming in hard and fast.

He’s sweating.

He can feel it trickling around his temples, feel it in the heat on his shoulders and the burning in his chest.

He fumbles with Evelyn’s drawer. Hands shaking as he sets each little bottle of medicine on her desktop.

Blessedly, there are no more little blue vials.

For some damnable reason there are no more little blue vials of salvation.

Damn her.

Bless her.

He wheezes out another breath, hands shooting out to grasp a bottle.

Advil.

That works.

His headache.

Yes.

He cracks the cap open, shaking as he tilts the bottle, one pill- two.

He hesitates, a third teetering on the edge of the cap.

He sets the bottle down, forcing himself to walk back to his desk with two little 200mg pills in his hand. He forces himself to sit down, to grab his water bottle and knock the pills back, wash them down with a swig of water.

They taste bitter.

Bitter in the way lyrium never was. Bitter and dry where lyrium was wet and sweet and syrupy.

His next breath is another wheeze and it has him fumbling for his phone.

He gets it, hits the speed dial and brings it to his ear.

He’s shaking and he knows it. Knows it because he can’t focus on anything. On the pounding of footsteps in the hall or Evelyn bursting back in, Cassandra on her heels.

Knows it because he snarls and jumps out of his chair.

“No.” He whispers. “I won’t take it!”

“Cullen!”

“You can’t make me!”

Cassandra’s palms are open and soft. “Cullen. It’s me. Cassandra. I will never make you take that drug.”

He’s shaking, but his world calms. Sounds trickle back in, fear bleeding through the panic, shame burning through the ragged rate of his own heart.

The buzz of his cellphone over the throbbing of his head.

“Cullen?” And it’s Josie. Bless her for picking up.

He swallows, and she repeats it, calling out his name. “Cullen? Is that you?” There’s another pause before he brings the phone up.

“Yes.” He murmurs. “Sorry. I just-it-I needed,” He fumbles with his words, looking up to find Cassandra’s expression full of concern, and Evelyn’s bordering on open worry. One of her thin lips is pulled in, her pearly white teeth gently teasing it, mindlessly chewing on it.

It’s so human.

“I had a moment.” He explains softly, shame burning in the back of his throat at the admission. But he had to be open with her. Honesty had to be his policy.

He had nothing else but that some days.

“Are you alright? Did you remove the temptation? Did you do what I told you?” Josie asks, and he wants to say yes. Wants to tell her that he did as she ordered. That he had taken precautions, but he can’t.

“My partner took it away, I asked her to.” He breathes. “I’ll call you back.” And he hangs up on her, letting his phone clatter to his desk as he presses a hand to his forehead.

“Cullen.” Cassandra eases in, hand out, palms open. Non-aggressive.

They use the same tactic when confronting children or hostages.

Or terrorists.

He slaps her hand away, regrets it instantly, but does it all the same. He doesn’t need her pity, her worry. He needs her confidence.

“I’m fine.” He huffs, gritting his teeth as his headache throbs. He shoves past her to his desk. “I’m going to the gym.” His third drawer is stocked for it, a spare water bottle, a pair of sweatpants, a spare tank top. Sneakers.

He pushes past Evelyn, barely sparing her a glance as he rushes out the door and down the stairs- taking them two at a time- until he can get to the locker room and maybe thereafter work some of this stress out of his system.

* * *

Detective Rutherford had been manic since the vial had been found in the drawer. She hadn’t meant to send him into a frenzy. She had meant for it to be there as an emergency only vial. In case he missed a dose, or they were in combat and he needed extra.

She meant well with it.

She means well with it.

She wants to be okay with it.

She knows she isn’t okay with it.

It hurts.

And it hurt so much more for him to snarl at her so suddenly, their tentative agreement of civility shattered from a one-ounce glass bottle of a drug she herself hated.

She had taken it and ran. Ran to Cassandra’s office and presented it to her. And without any response other than fear, the Deputy Chief had jumped out of her desk and rushed back to Detective Rutherford.

Had approached him like a cornered beast.

Had coaxed him down from some emotional cliff she wasn’t aware she’d backed him on to.

From something she hadn’t realized he’d been fighting.

All because of her.

“I need to apologize.” She steps back, reaching for the door, but Cassandra’s hand claps over her other wrist before she can open it.

“Stay.” She commands. 

And even if superiority hadn’t been used, the hard look in Cassandra’s eyes ensure that Evelyn slides away from the door, choosing instead to lean back against the edge of her desk.

“I understand your intentions were… just.” She starts gently. “But do not assume Cullen is a templar, by any definition simply because he was a templar.”

Evelyn hums, nodding slowly. “Like lyrium?”

Cassandra shakes her head. “It’s not my place to tell you why that’s significant. Only if he chooses. Just,” and here she faulters, pursing her lips and letting out a long suffering sigh. “don’t keep any of it. Not an ounce. Not a drop. Not for him. Or anyone else. Cullen is fine with…” She trails off, shaking her head.

“Would you recommend asking him about it?”

Cassandra snorts. “Not right now.” She mutters.

“I’ll let him cooldown.” Evelyn replies. “We were finishing up our report on the Balkner case, report should be ready by this evening.” She glances at the clock, 3:30. “If not, on your desk by the morning.”

“Don’t stay late.”

She smiles, “Is it still called late if I adjust my internal clock?”

Cassandra gives her a withering look, before something in between a groan, a growl, and a snarl of exasperation leaves her lips. She stalks out the door with a roll of her eyes. “Let Cullen stew for a moment Evelyn. Don’t rush off after him just yet.” She gives that final piece of advice, shutting the door behind her.

Leaving Evelyn in the room to herself.

In a room she suddenly finds too large for her to manage all on her own, despite the dimension of it not having changed. She feels too small to fill the space, too tiny in relation to the work ahead of her for all of a moment.

She hums and swallows, forces the mechanized process to happen, for synthetic saliva to moisten her mouth, for her to swallow it and a metaphorical burden, letting it tumble down into her stomach.

Detective Rutherford had gone to the gym.

She glances at her computer, the report still up. She could finish it without him. She could accurately record and describe the entire investigation, top to bottom in the report and have it ready for Cassandra before COB today if she really wanted to. But… but it felt wrong.

Something in her informed her that to finish the report she’d started with Detective Rutherford, without him, would be wrong. Like if she changed her eye color at this point, or her hair, or someone issued her a new serial number.

It wouldn’t mesh right.

None of it would.

But…

She shakes her head, coupling the human action with the one of clearing her thought process. She had started her report with her partner, and by that proxy, she should finish it with that partner.

She swallows, brushing her hands down her uniform. It’s rigid, tight on her frame in a way that is professional, but impractical for the gym.

Which means she’ll have to change.

Cassandra would likely have spare clothes, because she certainly does not. At the same time, she had given her pointed instruction NOT to follow or bother Detective Rutherford.

She doesn’t know many of the other officers here, and she wasn’t particularly zealous about running out and buying something just to wear it to the gym.

Which leaves her with a third final option she wasn’t completely happy with either.

But that third option has her walking out of the office and down the hall. It has her meandering down into the “bullpen” to find the poor little intern she knew would bow to her whim, if not because of her, because of Rutherford.

Jim.

“Intern.” She addresses, identifying him by hair and height, closely followed by the display of his name. “Do you have spare gym clothes?”

He starts, jumping to his feet before dropping down into his seat. He blinks, then shakes his head, then opens his mouth and closes it again. “Uh-I uh-“

“Words.” She instructs, “calm your nerves and use your words.”

“No Lieutenant.” He swallows. “But I think Detective Harding might have spares in her desk. I dunno if they’d fit you though ma’am. But.”

He shrugs, then smiles, then shrugs again. She sighs and rolls her eyes.

Detective Harding.

She can manage that interaction.

She marches back, back up the steps and down another door from her and Cullen’s shared office. Detective Harding was closer than she thought.

She knocks, uncertainty quantifying itself in the tentativeness of her knuckles on the wooden frame. “Detective Harding?” But not in her voice. She refuses to let her voice shake.

Not for this.

“Come in!” A rhythmic voice chirps back, followed by a short hum as she opens the door. “Oh! Cullen’s new partner right?”

And the person on the other side of the door is a dwarf, pretty and sweet cheeked, with cheeks that accent the smile that seems to naturally appear on her lips. And Evelyn immediately feels her nervousness vanish, and a tentative smile infect her own expression.

“Yes, right. Evelyn.” She smiles. “Pleased to meet you.” And she extends her hand to the woman.

Harding takes it. “Lace Harding. At your service. What’s got you here? Cullen finally give you a break?”

She smiles and shrugs. “I uh. Maybe? He went to the gym. And I… can’t follow in this uniform.” Straight to the point. Hopefully that was fine.

“Oh. Right.” Harding blinks, then looks back up at her. “You know some of the thinner girls there just wear a sports bra right?” She shrugs, then meanders around her desk. “Not that I mind, it’s nice to meet you too.” She shakes her head, opening her desk drawer and fumbling through the contents.

“No no no!” Evelyn hurries to apologize. “I – I mean I do-but.” She purses her lips. “I made a mistake, and I want to rectify it with Detective Rutherford.” She explains, “and I only want to ask for a favor, and I don’t sweat, so you shouldn’t have to worry about smell, or anything like that, but I just…” She folds her hands, fingers anxiously clicking together, brushing her knuckles and feeling all the joints.

“I was hoping you would lend them to me for an hour, so I can apologize to him.”

Harding blinks, cocking her head to the side for a moment. “Right.” She shrugs, then produces a tanktop and a large pair of sweatpants. “Bought these the other day, but haven’t hemmed them yet.” She looks down at her legs. “And assholes here don’t sell them in the right size.”

Evelyn smiles. “Can I make it up to you? Lunch? Dinner? Filing reports?”

Harding shrugs. “It’s gym clothes. I don’t mind.” A pause. “It’s Evelyn right?”

She smiles again. “Yes. Do you prefer Harding or Lace?”

The dwarf shrugs and smiles back at her. “Lace when we’re alone, Harding in public if you can manage. It’s good to have another girl upstairs.”

Evelyn pauses, frowning, before running through her memory. It makes sense, except, Cassandra’s door at the end of the hall. The other doors, excluding Harding, are all male occupants. “There’s the Deputy Chief.”

Harding shrugs and laughs. “I suppose, but she’s always so busy. I never get to see her. Make sure you don’t stay a stranger.”

Evelyn smiles, nods and eases back out the door with a – “thank you Lace. I really appreciate it.” Before she’s back in her office, changing.

And then she’s down the hall, ignoring the odd stares and one particular wolf whistle that she’s narrowed down to one of three people, and bursting into the precincts’ gym. Its quaint, old-fashion equipment because budget’s aren’t what they should be and never will be.

But if that bothers that made heaving two hundred and forty-five pounds up in the air like it’s nothing, it doesn’t show. Ah humans. Throwing heavy weights around their body to build muscle.

Quite a curiosity.

Not a terrible show.

Wow, maybe she should temper some of that WR500 code she got.

Detective Rutherford sets the bar back on the rack, sitting up and huffing out a great breath. Amber eyes flicker around the room, and when they land on her, his breathing catches and he blinks.

Once

Twice

Then a frown tugs at the edges of his lips before a scowl burns the expression away. He cocks one eyebrow at her, but before he can do anything other than glare, someone else is there to annoy her.

“And what’s the tincan doing in a room for the meatbags?” A female voice hisses as a hand spins her.

So focused on Rutherford, she didn’t notice until the person was on her. And she frowns, considering the woman in front of her. Large. Muscular. Brutish even.

“Excuse you?” She replies, giving the woman a once over.

“Not like you need the exercise. Unless you’re just here to make us feel bad.” The woman crosses her arms, then peels her gaze off her toward the direction of the benchpress. “Or are you one of those types that tries to snatch up other people’s men?”

She bristles. Blushes as well, but the heat in her cheeks is overridden by her desire to reach down the woman’s throat and pop her vocal cords one by one.

That little pleasure is stolen from her as well. Althought the way it is, leaves her just as satisfied.

“Evelyn.” Rutherford’s voice is tight as he saunters up. Saunters because she can’t think of a better word with how he’s expression is all false confidence and swagger. She can see it in his eyes, how he wants to be anywhere but here. “Glad you came to spot me.”

And she jumps on board because she has no other excuse, and she’s both grateful and wary of the olive branch that singular line offers.

“Of course. I wouldn’t leave my partner hanging.” And she flashes him a smile.

He grabs her hand, physically pulls her away from the other woman and back to the bench. He pulls her along side of him, head dipping down as he whispers, “Load rating?”

And she’s be offended if it wasn’t common knowledge in her model design. “230 without leverage or damage. 300 with.” 300 may or may not be a bit of a stretch. She’s had some minor modifications to her lifting ability, but… she’s not designed for heavy lifting. And the elven frame she occupies, really does not lend to that ability.

“Benchpress?” He furthers.

“I can spot you.” She affirms. “Thank you, for…”

“Christina is a bitch, don’t worry about it.” He replies, sitting back down on the bench. He shuffles under the bar, cracking his neck as he sets his hands on the grips. He heaves it off the bar as she walks around, steps onto the little platform and placing her fingers lightly overtop the bar.

“So why did you come here?” He asks, easing the bar down before exhaling and pushing it back up.

He has good form.

“Because I…” She hesitates and shrugs, “I wanted to apologize. I made assumptions based on your previous occupation. I… I should have asked.” She supplies.

He lowers the bar back down, muscles straining as he holds it. “No.” He murmurs. “You made an educated guess.” He inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales and pushes up, forcing the bar up.

It shakes, but rises steadily as he lifts. One of her fingers curl a bit further around the bar.

“You don’t take it?”

“Not anymore.” He growls the words, but it’s not at her, and its more from exertion as he lowers the bar again.

“I’m sorry.” And she is. Lyrium withdrawl is…

A painful experience.

She’s heard to templars that try to quit. And it’s never an easy process, and usually, it doesn’t end well. Most can’t withstand their system being flooded with the enchancement, and then deprived of it. Some research has been done in the field. But off the top of her head, she’s not sure if she’s heard anyone that successfully quit the drug. At least not one that lived much long after.

“I’m managing.” He growls, and the bar shakes. “And I’m taking minor doses. Increasing length between.”

She knows he’s trusting her.

Knows that something like this, something so personal, is what he’s scared of admitting.

“That’s impressive.” She decides on the words, because she isn’t quite sure what else to say.

He racks the bar, sitting up and shaking his arms out. “It’ll be impressive when I quit.” He replies, then glances back at her. “It’ll be impressive when I can look at you, and not see cold bodies and warm blood.”

Because that’s just something you casually mention to your partner.

Yep.

Cold Bloodies and warm blood.

Well.

“I’m here for whatever you need.” She assures, because she isn’t sure what else she could say. Should say.

“Space.” He replies. “Space and a a…” he sighs and shakes his head. “My therapist said I should be honest.” He mutters that line more to himself than anyone else as he shakes his head.

So he sees a therapist.

That’s…

Good.

“You can always be honest with me.” She assures, curling her fingers around the bar uncertainly.

He nods, but then he huffs and shakes his head. “Sorry.” He mutters. “I just…just…” then he sighs and shakes his head again. “I’m going to go to lunch.” He excuses, pulling himself off the bench and making his way to the doors.

He’s unsteady on his feet, uncertain in his steps as he makes his way to the door. He stops at one of the lockers, opens it and takes out a water bottle, mindlessly taking a drink.

And-

Shit- did the man do squats?

Damn she needed to temper some of the WR programming. She did not need pictures of her partner’s ass buried in her memory.

Well… not that it’s a terrible thing to see-but-

Ah! Not right now! Damn it!

She huffs and shakes her head, resting her elbows on the bar as she watches the templar-no-longer walk out the door, looking just as lost as he had when he ran out of their office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy  
> I know it's been a while on this story. But I just got sucked into other works. Specifically Down the Rabbit Hole, and Rabbit Tracks.   
> But I've had this chapter in the works for a while, and right now, I'm just stalling out on it, looking for the plot bunnies.   
> I still like the dynamic for it, I just don't 100% know where I'm going with it is all.


	4. Catch and Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen goes out for lunch with his therapist.   
> The usual spot, and really he should be used to it by now.  
> More or less.

Chapter 4

Catch and Release

Dorian Pavus is perhaps the most difficult, infuriatingly complex man Cullen has ever had the pointed displeasure of being friends with.

Mostly because before Cullen can even squeeze out what he wants to drink, Pavus has it written, sent to the kitchen along with his meal, and has slid into the seat in front of him to flirt.

Flirt being a general term. Because Dorian Pavus flirts with everyone.

At this point- Cullen is more surprised he hasn’t tried flirting with the flowers.

“So, what brings my strapping, muscly blonde detective to my humble shop?” Dorian hums, lips parting in a smile as Cullen runs a hand through his hair, trying to squish the headache tugging at his brain.

“Josie.” He replies, because after having to meet here for months, Dorian at least knows not to push on days where he’s here for this.

“Damn.” And Dorian slouches and leans back in the chair, casting his gaze up to the ceiling tiles. “And here I thought it was because I was special. No love for your favorite restaurateur?”

“I’d love it if you didn’t flirt with me.” Cullen replies with a pointed look.

And Dorian acts like the comment wounds him, sweeping a hand up to press against his heart. “You wound me detective. I did all of this-“ and he sweeps his hand over his form with a smile and a wriggle of his eyebrows “just for you.”

“And every other customer that saunters into this brothel.”

“It’s only a brothel if you have to pay for the show.”

And he must have made a face at that because Dorian laughs, standing up and clapping his hands together like he’s won a prize. He smiles and rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say Rutherford.” And he surveys the shop. “You know you come here because I always get your order right. And you know I flirt with you because you always look so damn gloomy it would be a shame to not put something other than a frown on that face.”

Cullen sighs, rolling his eyes as he looks at anything other than the flamboyant man in front of him. Honestly. It’s.

He shakes his head. “Whatever you like Pavus.” He replies, because anything else is beyond him right now and if there is anything else in his life that requires more brainpower than two cells can generate it will have to wait till tomorrow.

Preferably tomorrow evening.

“Cullen?”

Fuck.

Right. He was here for his therapist.

Damn.

He peels his eyelids back open, dredging his fingers through his hair to drop his gaze to the Antivan woman easing around the other tables in the café to join him.

Josephine is a wonder.

And human.

A note that probably sets him at ease more than he’d like to admit, because admitting it would also be admitting that he’s still uncomfortable around androids.

She nearly glides across the room, all smiles and sunshine as she pulls the chair back and eases into it. She sits, perched at the edge of her seat and fixing him with a smile and a focused look.

“Tell me about your day.” She says by way of introduction.

He groans, grimaces and feels shame and guilt burn through his veins in equal measure before obligation wins out over both. He leans against the table, pursing his lips as he considers it.

It’s quiet.

And perhaps that’s why Josie always likes to meet at the Pavus café.

It’s lively, little niches of noise and movement that make sure it’s never quite awkward or deathly still. It’s alive and fluid, waitresses and waiters moving through the sparsely populated table to fill orders or joke with customers.

It keeps him from falling back into memory.

“Headache when I woke up.” He finally said, mulling his next words over before speaking. “So I went for a run in the park to clear my head. No issues, saw a few birds, a duck. Think it’s getting a little cold for most fowl this time of year.”

“Did the run help?” She asks gently.

He shrugs, considering. The icy wind, the chill in his lungs as the freezing air burned through it.

“Perhaps.” Because Kirkwall was never quite as cold as here. Because ice didn’t burn through his lungs when he tore blue hearts from plastic chests and red blood slos-

Dorian is obnoxious when he sets the glasses down, nearly dropping them on the table and it takes everything in him not to snatch them out of the man’s hands.

But the man gives him a thoughtful look, and Cullen knows that it’s just his way.

Because Dorian, just like every other person in this café knows all the ticks and the tells of PTSD. Knows that introducing something that doesn’t fit the scenario is something that tends to gently break the thought. Morph it from a fantasy back to reality.

“Lemonade suits your today.” Dorian says, as if that excuses both the look, and the assumption that he wanted the drink.

But Cullen takes it anyway, curls his fingers around the glass and muses on the soft yellow color.

The last time he had lemonade he was…

Fishing.

With his father…

“Cullen?” Josie pushes, voice ever so quiet, ever so gentle. Like a child prodding a lion.

“The cold makes it better.” He replies finally, “the memories at least. But I think it makes the other symptoms worse.”

Lyrium withdraw frequently robs his limbs of strength and warmth. Leaving him a freezing mess-trembling as he shuffles his way towards the nearest heat source. More often than he’d like to admit he wakes up shivering and shaking his in blankets, dry mouthed with his head spinning.

It’s all he can do not to call Josie and beg for an ounce. A gram. Any fraction of the precious blue liquid.

“Alright. What’d you do after your run?” She prods him, taking a sip of her own drink, tea. Warm and served in a cup.

Tea was something he hadn’t been able to drink since he became a templar.

The desire to mix it with lyrium burned in the back of his mind.

And the warmth that bleed into his fingers through the ceramic cups always made him think of blood oozing out of bodies.

“Showered, changed, ate breakfast.”

“That’s wonderful.” She encourages him with a smile. “Your usual eggs and toast I take it?”

“Eventually I’ll learn to cook something else, and I’ll leave you guessing.” He jokes, giving her a weak sort of smile as he sets the glass back down.

And she returns it with a genuine one. “Perhaps. I did buy you a cookbook last year.”

And he scowls at that, remembering the title. “Ah yes. Singles-Simple-Cooking. I didn’t take offense to that at all.”

But she fixes him with a look that tells him she knows better than to assume he actually did. And she was right.

He just never had time to cook.

Time to learn to cook anything other than breakfast and maybe a few things on the grill. He didn’t truly feel all that motivated either. If there was something else he felt like eating then he could buy it, and it would be lunch tomorrow if he had leftovers. It was. Simple.

Easy.

“Yes. Eggs, toast, jam.” He huffs with a roll of his eyes. “Then I went to the office, met with Cassandra, back to my office with Evelyn-

“You’re new partner?” Josie interrupts, quirking an eyebrow. “Evelyn is a woman’s name…” She adds with a smile.

Cullen huffs again, ignoring the urge to mimic one of the exasperated grunts Cassandra so often uses in situations like these. “Yes. She is.” He replies, waiting for the follow up.

But instead he gets-

“Is she good at her job? I know you’re thrown out your other partners for not meeting standards.”

He hesitates, drums his fingers on the desk to consider. One finger curls around the lemonade glass, slowly flexing as he wills it to spin.

“I suppose she’s good at it.” He finally decides. “But her typing gives me headaches.”

And Josie cocks an eyebrow at that, and he knows he’s nitpicking but-

“She’s just annoyingly fast. First day in she offers to read my report at type it through her.” He scoffs at that. “As if I can’t write the damn thing on my own.”

“She’s just trying to be helpful.”

He snorts at that, despite knowing it to be true. “She’s edited my reports.” He grumbles, then furthers that with a, “while I’m still writing them!”

And that has Josie’s interest peaked. He can see it in how she shifts, how she sits up a little straighter.

“And she does this how?”

Cullen rolls his eyes again, seeing how this conversation was being steered. “Android.” He finally says. “My partner is an android.”

And it’s like the Maker has returned. Josie jolts from her seat, elation clearly written all over her features as she grabs Cullen’s hands and grins at him.

“Oh Cullen! You have an android partner!”

“So you’re telling me I couldn’t seduce the man, but a manufactured swot managed to slip her way into my favorite man’s arms?” And both of them snap over to look at Dorian, carrying two sandwich baskets and looking quite peeved at the notion.

And then the rest of his sentence catches up with Cullen and he can feel the heat rushing up his neck.

He slides his hands out of Josie’s grip, scooting back from the table slightly as he wrings them out in his lap. “There is no.” He struggles with the word, sits on it for a fraction of a second as Dorian places their lunches in front of them. “Seducing.” And if it was possible to whisper a word with utter revulsion then Cullen gave it his best shot, “going on between me and my partner.”

“What a shame.” Dorian murmurs, tweaking his mustache with a quirk of his lips. “But it’s good to know that I might still have a shot at that belt.” And his eyes drop down Cullen’s frame in a way he is 100% uncomfortable with.

“Dorian.” Cullen growls, and the man blinks as if he was caught in the middle of a thought. “Out.” 

And the man gives him another disarming smile before drifting away to flirt with another customer on the other side of the room. Cullen drags his fingers through his hair again, teasing it into the usual style as he tries to refocus.

“So is she pretty?”

“Pretty manufactured.” Cullen responded with a huff, and at Josephine’s disapproving look, he relented and added, “I suppose. She’s designed to look Elven, slender all over, kind of a dirty blonde-brownish hair, purple eyes.” He shrugs. “I suppose she’s attractive.”

“You noticed her appearance.” Josephine points out, folding her napkin in her lap.

“She sits across from me.” Cullen replies, dismissing the notion that he would pay more attention to her than anyone else. “Besides. I can tell you the same amount of detail about Cassandra, and I’m damn sure I’m not attracted to her.”

“Cassandra is her own breed.”

“Cassandra is her own species.” Cullen remarks with a quirk of his lips and the barest of smiles. “But she’s damn good at what she does.” And he was partially responsible for that.

“So, what’s this android’s name.”

“Evelyn.” He replies. “Something like an RK 900 or.” He shrugs and huffs. “I dunno. But she’s her own person, doesn’t follow that programing crap so.” He shrugs. “I guess that makes her…” He hesitated, unsure what other words he might like to use.

More human would be appropriate.

More like the droids he had to fight would be as well.

More manageable about might even be a phrase.

“Normal?” Josie offered.

But normal didn’t have blue blood instead of red. Normal slept in a regular cycle. Normal didn’t have purple eyes and cold skin. Normal didn’t have a serial number.

“Acceptable.” He replied instead, picking up his sandwich.

Bacon, provolone cheese and roast beef sandwiched in between two lightly toasted buns. A cup of soup on the other side of the little wicker basket.

For as much obnoxious flirting as Dorian does, he makes a good sandwich.

Cullen takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully as Josephine reloads. She always builds up to the harder questions but lets him sidetrack them into the little things. She says it helps him explain his thoughts.

Which.

Is more than most people allow.

Most people does not always include Evelyn Lavellan.

And that unbridled thought makes him squirm in his seat and take another bite of his sandwich.

“Did she take the lyrium away earlier?” Josephine asks as he takes another bite, and he has to force his expression to remain neutral and not betray that his throat has hiccuped and he’s half-choking on his bite of sandwich.

His throat spasms, and he grits his teeth and swallows it. It lands in his stomach like a rock.

“She did.” He allows.

“And she….” She trails off on purpose, forcing him to answer.

“She kept it in her drawer, in case a missed a dose is what she said.” He then he hesitates, reflecting on the memory.

On the expression on her face, the grimace, the near scowl that took over her face as he marveled at the little blue salvation.

She was disgusted.

More than disgusted, she was revolted.

“Did she stop you?”

“No. I stopped myself.” Cullen huffs. “I picked it up, set it aside and asked her to take it away.”

And she claps her hands together with a smile. I’m so proud of you Cullen!”

She shouldn’t be. Not when he still snapped at Evelyn. Not when he still flinches at the thought of her holding a gun. Not when he peered through her file and tried to figure out just how much combat training she had, just to know if he should be wary of her.

Not when he meets those purple eyes and finds himself shivering and shaking, cold bleeding into his limbs and fear pumping out of his heart.

He returns Josephine’s smile instead of voicing any of those thoughts. “Trying.” He replies. “I’m trying.”

“Well-what do you have planned for the rest of today?” She asks, smiling in the way that Josie did when she had the highest hopes for you.

But Cullen doesn’t find an answer, too distracted by the bell at the door jingling, signaling another customer. Too caught up in analyzing the now-familiar limb structure, the sculpted smoothness of the newest face. The trickle of a smile on too-pale lips that just barely could classify as pink.

“Evelyn?”

And purple eyes snap to him, shifting from him to Josephine and back. And then those lithe limbs were moving, shoving the person behind her back.

“Lace, how about we go somewhere else?” He hearsher say. “Please?”

Lace.

Lace Harding.

Detective Harding.

Had almost walked in on him with Josephine.

On him with his therapist.

And Evelyn of all people had shoved her out, dismissed it.

And through the tinted window she could see Evelyn ushering Harding down the street, purple eyes peeking back over the dwarf.

He drums his fingers on the tabletop, looking back to Josephine.

“Sooo…”

“We’re not talking about that.” He replies hastily, taking another bite of his sandwich and washing it back with the lemonade.

And she smiles even broader, if possible. “The blush on your cheeks, or the way you lost your train of thought when she opened the door?”

He sets the glass back on the table, empty.

“Either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope everyone is okay with me blatantly not making Dorian an android despite the fact he's a mage and mages=androids. But. I decided I wanted him to flirt with Cullen too badly and as a droid, Cullen could not function with that as of right now.   
> Also Josephine being a therapist in a Modern AU is my own personal headcannon just because of how soothing her voice is and how she'd be capable of handling any mental or emotional burden with kind words and gentle encouragement.


	5. Lies Tolerated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few interesting details crop up in the latest crime scene Cullen and Evelyn have been assigned.   
> And it has an effect on both of them- regardless of what lies slide from their lips.

Chapter 5

Lies Tolerated (Protocol Ignored)

He doesn’t mention the lunch run-in when he sees her. Not for the rest of that day, and not that morning when they (he) comes in. He doesn’t comment on it when she meanders through his filing system, idly commenting she needs to rework it.

(He refuses, stating that he recalls cases best in terms of Type:Year:Verdict:Date:Person)

(She would prefer to do it Year:Date:Person:Type:Verdict)

She decides it’s not worth getting into a spat over it with him, and instead slides into her desk with a huff and a stretch.

The door bangs open, and it’s Jim being a druffalo again, a stack of files in his hands.

“Jim.” She quips, just before Detective Rutherford gets to his feet. “Brace yourself.”

And he straightens up, cocking an eyebrow before Cullen steps into his personal bubble.

The files are ripped from his hands, slammed onto Evelyn’s desk (she’ll address that later) and the man’s fists coil around Jim’s freshly starched collar.

“What did I tell you to do when you report to me?” He hisses, low and dangerous.

It’s at that point that Evelyn decides Cullen has a headache, if not because of the uptick in his heartrate, then because the throbbing vein next to the man’s temple and how a moment ago he’d been deadly silent.

She eases the top drawer open, pulling out her little bottle of medication and setting it on her desk beside the files.

“To…?” Jim trails off, and those poor pitiful eyes widen as he realizes his error.

Cullen’s grip tightens, his eyes narrow, amber eyes burning to little smoldering embers. Like a setting sun. No less intense, but infinitely hot.

“Jim.” Evelyn chimes in. “You might want to explain why you’re here. Before Detective Rutherford shows you your own serial number.” The quip is dark, actually very dark considering where her serial number is stamped, but she smiles to finish it and the intern seems to understand.

“Uh-I-Uh-“

Rutherford growls, and the weight in his hands shifts as his bicep’s flush, lifting the slim android off his feet.

“DEAD BODY ON SEVENTEETH STREET CHIEF PENTAGHAST ASSIGNED IT TO YOU FILES ON THE DESK!” He howls like his life depends on it.

Evelyn isn’t 100% it didn’t.

Either because he’s done with the poor sod, or because the volume at which Jim screamed the information out, Cullen drops the man and shoves him out the door. As soon as it closes he grimaces, hands going up to his head as he massages his temples.

“Sweet Maker I think he popped an eardrum.” Cullen murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut before leaning over her desk.

She doesn’t reply, and instead cracks the headache medication open, pouring three of the 200mg pills into her hand and offering them to Cullen. It takes him a minute, one where he continually massages his temples, before he cracks his eyes open to see her offer.

“Bless you.” He grumbles, and while the words shock her, she knows they’re probably more directed to the medication than to her. He takes the pills out of her hand, fingers clumsy before he pops them into his mouth-dry swallowing.

“Coat and car?” She asks softly.

He holds up a finger, blinking for a moment as if he’s trying to clear a vision.

She waits.

Knows at this point when he’s experiencing a heavier wave of backlash than when he’s not.

She did her research.

While taking lyrium, Cullen would have experienced a boost in mental speed, physical strength and reflexes, as well as a heightened sense of smell and hearing. It was all around, a very effective combat enhancer.

As a repercussion, during withdrawl he would experience bouts of weakness, flashes of light or sound sensitivity and days of mental sluggishness or lethargy. She hadn’t seen him experience the last two, since most days he was quick as a whip, if not fumbling for a specific word on the occasion.

Though…

She had heard word about him having a stutter once upon a time.

Maybe it was only when he was nervous?

Either way.

She waits.

The moment seems to pass quickly, and he straightens up slowly, taking a step back to his desk and propping himself up against his desk.

“You alright?” She asks, voice purposefully low and soft. He seems to react better to that when having a headache. Or just in general.

“Getting there.” He replies just as quietly, but he winces at his own voice, even if he does not to hers.

He stands after another minute, jaw set, eyes narrowed as he bursts into motion. The files on her desk are neglected for the time, they have a crime scene to investigate and paper files can sit until they get back.

And it’s not like she plans on leaving the office tonight to begin with.

“Car?” She asks again.

“I’ll get it.” He replies as he sweeps his coat off the rack.

She’d heard that being in the cold helped with lyrium headaches. That little comment seemed to reaffirm that.

They don’t talk, walking out together and down the stairs. Lace gives her a smile and a wave from the corridor leading to the gym, and Evelyn returns it.

Cullen is out the door without a pause, and it gives her just a moment to approach the woman before he’ll be back around with the car.

“He seems in a mood.” Lace remarks with a huff.

She shrugs and smiles. “Headache.” She dismisses. “I think they’re chronic.” Because she’d rather have a ready excuse for any of Rutherford’s grumpy mood than not have anything in the future.

Lace shrugs and hums again, “makes sense.” She supplies. “He been treating you alright? I know he’s rough I…” And she trails off.

And Evelyn smiles. “He’s fair.” She replies. And she suspects that Detective Rutherford’s rough attitude towards androids is at least a little known around the office, and that’s the cause for concern.

It’s also a likely cause of the interest in their partnership. They’ve been successful since her assignment, even if it’s only been a week and a few days.

Eight days of supporting Detective Rutherford, and she already knew more about him than some of his other coworkers.

She supposes that might be because of Chief Pentaghast’s involvement in her placing, and her rank making sure he doesn’t have much of a choice in her staying.

It also might have been her nature.

She was an android.

And he was a templar.

She chose not to dwell on that subject too much.

“Take care.” Lace interrupts her thoughts, and her mind has to whirl back to the conversation to keep up. “Let me know if you need anything.” And she smiles at her again before brushing past to return to her office.

Evelyn smiles. It’s nice.

Nice to finally have a good female friend that doesn’t bring up the fact she’s been manufactured instead of conceived into a conversation. And doesn’t treat her like it’s that big of a deal when she does acknowledge it.

An alarm pings across her interface, letting her know that Detective Rutherford has shifted the car into gear.

She heads to the door, gathering up the small bag of tools and her gear- before stepping out into the cold.

She hisses, pursing her lips as she feels the wind slice through her hair, riffling through her form as she steps into open air. It’s miserable.

Cold, just a little wet because of it, and windy. All in all, it was hell, and she was glad that Detective Rutherford had gotten the car instead of her. Even if she might not be affected by the cold (as much) she still hated it.

Maybe it was a personal preference on her part.

He pulls the car around, and with a flicker of a thought she unlocks the passenger side door and slides in, setting her gear in the floorboards.

“Wait.” She says sharply, and whatever Rutherford was about to do, he pauses, giving her a confused look as she straps her seatbelt in and curls her fingers around the seat frame.

“Alright now I’m ready.”

He continues to stare at her, cocking one eyebrow at her. “What are you…”

“I know how you drive.” She replies with a glare. “I didn’t feel like having to get my skull or your windshield replaced when you whipped me out of it.”

“I’m not that bad.” He grumbles, foot slipping off the brake and onto the car.

The car surges forward, and he whips it around the parking lot and out into the street in one fluid motion.

“Right.” She mutters, gritting her teeth and muting herself as she sees the surge of traffic.

She grits her teeth as he flicks on the sirens, sliding through traffic in the specifically aggressive way that only Detective Rutherford seems to be able to manage. He wheels it around a corner, jerking it slightly to avoid a car parked on the corner, and slides them back into their lane.

It’s a near thing to avoid the oncoming car, but Cullen manages it with a snarl and a curse.

“People need to learn how to drive.”

“You need to learn what a speed limit is.” She grits back, and he shoots her a look out of those intense amber eyes before they’re back on the road.

He pulls out of the street and back onto a main road, cruising through the lanes.

“Directions?” He prompts without taking his eyes off the road.

“N-Next right.” She starts and stutters as he hits a bump, and it jerks her up in the seat. “Here!” She points, unsure if he’s paying enough attention to hear her.

He does.

His driving neither suffers nor improves with her direction. Instead he whips into possibly the only free space on the street, wheels screeching as he half drive- half slides into the spot.

She jerks to a stop, and she looks at him.

“Did you just drift this vehicle?”

He gives her a flat look. “You do know I was a combat driver, right?”

Well that explains a lot.

“I do now.” She replies, cracking the door open and gathering up her equipment. Which is this case, is a small bag with a pencil and a pad- because people reacted better when you actively were writing what they were saying down, and small case of cotton swabs- because Cullen’s reaction to her sticking a finger in still warm corpses prompted her to use another medium to obtain DNA.

She decided not to comment on the fact that human blood was one of the fluids freely transferred through medical procedures despite potential risks and backlashes from patient to patient.

Maybe it was just because she was putting it in her mouth.

That made her smile, but then quickly sort that thought into a file for later. If nothing else, then it was something she could ask about after work to determine how she might be a better partner.

The crime scene isn’t far, and they don’t talk as Rutherford gathers their gear, and Evelyn buttons up her coat and takes out a pen.

It takes half-a-dozen glances up and down the city street for her to determine whom all the on lookers are, and then another to verify that the majority of them are actually fellow police.

“Why is this scene so trafficked?” She murmurs.

“Dunno.” Rutherford brushes it off as they ease up the yellow caution tape and slip into the alleyway.

It’s a straight shot between the warehouse on the left- old and out of service but once was a …. Fish market- apparently, and the new loft apartments on the other side of it.

Not in the best conditions but taken care of and at least swept clean- either by magic or by machine, has preserved the newest addition to the alley’s environment.

That addition being a headless corpse attached to the brick wall.

Evelyn whistles softly.

“Just another fucking Monday.” Rutherford grumbles, crossing his arms as he glares at the carcass.

“Detective it’s- “she starts to correct him.

“I know what day it is.” He cuts her off with a huff. “It’s a joke.” And he stalks down the alley- leaving her with the stunning observation that- grouchy Detective Cullen Rutherford can make a joke.

He continues down the alleyway, golden blonde eyebrows hunched over his amber eyes just like a lion’s shoulders hunch as it creeps forward to slaughter its innocent prey.

Oooo. That was a good line.

Maybe she should recommend it to Varric?

Maybe she should be doing her job before Detective Rutherford turns those animal amber eyes to her?

Mmm.

That might be a good idea too.

She flips through her little notebook and falls into step behind him, matching him pace for pace, and stepping out of the way as he brings himself to a halt in front of the corpse.

“Swords aren’t exactly the easiest peg for a body.” Rutherford grumbles, considering the bloody hilts. He reaches for one, then pauses and scrounges in his pocket for a glove.

“Do we have pictures of this yet?” He asks, fumbling his pockets before she reaches into her own, producing a thick pair of black latex ones in his size. He glances at her, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“They’re in your left breast pocket of your coat if you prefer your own.” She tells him, meeting that amber gaze with a bit of a snarky purple one. She can’t help it.

He doesn’t reply, but instead snatches the gloves out of her hands and pulls them over hands she is willing to bet are more callous and blister than skin.

Someone must have given him an affirmative because he steps forward, grabbing the swords that are holding the victim’s wrists to the wall and heaving back. It might have been a bit intriguing to watch the man rip two swords out of a brick wall with muscle and willpower alone, if not for the sudden realization that- they were two full swords, and it was a brick wall.

And that might have given her pause.

Surprisingly the corpse stays in place, slumped over the sword bearing most of its weight- the one in its chest, even as Rutherford bends down and rips the ones in its feet out.

The corpse is undoubtedly male, dressed in dark trousers that might have been black, and left shirtless and bloodied from the assault.

She steps forward as Rutherford examines the final sword and the drop the body will have to endure from its position on the wall to the ground. 

“Evelyn.” He says as she slides between the him and the dead body.

She draws a cotton swab from her small bag of things, swapping the bloodied chest before popping it into her mouth, swirling it around. “Yes?” She asks.

“Heaviest android lifting capacity and approximate force required to precisely fracture brick.”

She paused, glancing at him before frowning. “2 tons, give or take leverage, which-“She glances around, assessing the floor. “I don’t see any lock points, or points to bolt in from grip, so a loader wasn’t used. And 260 kNs.” She pauses. “If you neglect the entirety of the structure’s cohesion and the influx created from mortar.”

Rutherford hums at that, considering the wall for a time. “A human did this.” He concludes, reaching around her and grabbing the sword. He rips it free, and the body drops to the floor as he examines the sword.

It’s normal, from what she can see.

The body. Not the setting. Or the actual murdering of said body. But the body is normal. One headless body attached to a wall with swords.

The sword on the other hand is not, and she recognizes it by the insignia engraved in the hilt, and the practical no-nonsense cross guard, and perhaps a bit from the way that Rutherford had twirled it into a fighting stance once it was out of the brick and flesh.

“That’s a templar’s sword.” She knows the tilt of the blade, the soft buzz of enchantment and tech melded together to create an android killer.

She knows the look of the hilt, pommel, cross guard and all.

“It is.” Rutherford replies, teeth gritted as he huffs out a breath that bursts into vapor in the cold air. He isn’t looking at the blade, likely doesn’t have to, and instead is staring at the wall again.

She follows it and finds that other than the bloody imprint of a man there, there’s not much of interest there. Rutherford continues to stare, and she turns her attention back to the corpse.

A q-tip slides across the neck stump, and she swabs it gently before popping it into her mouth. Someone behind her yelps and stumbles back as she sucks the blood off the medium. On the bright side, her partner doesn’t react, and that was her intention.

“O+ blood, doses of lyrium, small- name is Felix Churchill.” She notes.

“He was a templar.” Rutherford remarks softly, considering based on the tone and the hum in his throat. Then he turns and barks out orders. “Clear the area! Any extras get back to patrol, this is a crime scene and your bollocking it up with your druffalo feet! CSI’s bag and tag the ends and in a five-meter radia around the corpse! I want everything from a cigarette pack to a mouse’s ass hair! And someone look for a black velvet box!”

Velvet box? She decides not to ask that question, and instead returns to studying the corpse, checking the rigor and feel of it.

“Time of death is less than four hours.” She remarks, “and COD looks to be the decapitation.”

“Looks to be?” He asks. “Thought you were supposed to know with a glance.”

She huffs. “Well, there might be a bullet in his forehead, but I can tell you the blood spray agrees with the theory. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t shot first and then decapitated right after.” She shrugs.

That’s a chilling thought, and as she steps away from the corpse, she notices how Cullen lingers.

“Did you know him?” She asks hesitantly.

He stares and stares, and his fingers flex and uncurl back and forth as he considers it. She’s not sure how long it takes for him to speak- caught up in the steady _thump thump thump_ of his heartrate despite his outward signs of emotional turmoil.

A tech arrives, a long plastic baggie in his hands and he holds it open expectantly at Cullen. He raises the sword, still clasped in his hand, letting it spin in his palm before he eases it into the new plastic sheath.

“No.” He whispers, his heart going _thumpthump_ with the soft lie as it crosses his lips.

She smiles at him as he gives her a passing glance. “I see.” And she lets that go as well, deciding it would just be another thing that she lets slip through her fingers in the matters of Detective Cullen Rutherford.

Chief Pentaghast doesn’t necessarily need to know Rutherford might know this victim. And his insight in templars might make him all the more valuable in the investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Tried here.   
> Hope it came out alright.


End file.
